SH: A Dignified Farewell
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: The end has come for Sherlock Holmes. As he lays on his deathbed he is visited by Dr. John Watson, who reminisces about their close friendship as he he stays with his dying friends during his final moments.


It was in 1904 after an illustrious twenty-three year career as a highly publicized and famous detective that Sherlock Holmes had chosen to retire alone to the countryside in Sussex. Dr. John Watson had chosen to remain in London as he too had retired from medicine, but had shown no interest in a change of location. As a widower Watson he become accustomed to isolation and seemed to relish his privacy.

An already somber, rainy night in 1926 was made all the more disturbing for Watson as he received an emergency telegraph regarding the failing health of his dearest and oldest friend, Sherlock Holmes. The young messenger was nervous as he stood in the doorway of the flat if 221b Baker Street, his face pale and his hands shaking as he handed the piece of paper containing the unfortunate information to the seasoned doctor.

"So sorry to disturb you at such a late hour," the messenger apologized profusely as he stood on the steps outside the flat. "but I was told it was to be delivered most urgently."

"It's quite alright lad, quite alright." Watson took the small slip of paper and adjusted his glasses over his nose to read the dire and hastily delivered message. Shortly thereafter he too became pale and nervous just like the anxious delivery boy, the handle of his cane began to tremble in beneath his tight grip as he began to lean heavily against the support. "By Jove... Holmes."

"Will that be all, sir?" The young messenger asked in a shaking voice.

Watson didn't reply, his stare was distant and full of emotion as he looked through the letter in his hand while his mind raced with thousands of different thoughts, memories and fears. It seemed time and distance had proven itself the greatest foe either man could have ever anticipated.

Every dangerous case that took the duo far from the safety of their flat, every violent suspect who threatened with a knife or a pistol, even all the wounds that either man suffered during their adventures had seemingly become absolutely nothing in the light of this one bleak letter:

* * *

It was the case Watson had entitled ' _The Adventures of the Three Garridebs_ ' when the doctor had finally seen a glimpse of the big heart beyond the big brain that resided in Sherlock's being. After being grazed by a passing bullet Sherlock reacted so strongly in anger and defense of Watson's wound that it seemed the detective did in fact feel more emotion, more compassion than he initially displayed.

"I'm quite fine Holmes." Watson insisted as he dabbed a cottonball soaked in alcohol against the bleeding scratch left behind by the bullet. "It won't even need a stitch."

"Are you certain? Perhaps we could see to one of your former colleagues at St. Bartholomew's Hospital before we return to Baker Street."

"Nonsense. See?" Watson turned his arm slightly toward Sherlock to show him where the bullet had passed by his upper arm without piercing muscle or bone. "It's already begun to stop bleeding. I just need to apply a bandage and we'll be on our way."

"Very well." Sherlock passed Watson a bundle of gauze and watched as the skilled doctor mended his own injury without any faltering to his touch or reactions. "But let me assure you Watson, what I stated earlier was not an idle threat: if anyone were to lay harm to my Boswell then that person would fail to see the light of another day outside a prison cell."

* * *

"Sir?" The messenger tried to address Watson again, only to receive the same silent reply. "Sir!"

"What? Pardon?" Watson was pulled back to reality by the urgency in the young man's voice.

"I asked if that would be all... Are you going to be okay, sir?"

"Why, yes, yes..." Watson folded the message and slipped it into his robe pocket as he regained his composure. "That'll do. Thank you, lad."

Retreating back into the flat Watson shut the door behind him and charged up the staircase as quickly as he arthritic and scarred bones could carry him. Alone in the flat, having inherited the property after Mrs. Hudson had long since passed away due to old age, the retired doctor's every movement echoed loudly through the empty building as he hustled about trying to gather the bare minimum required to travel from London to Sussex for just a few days.

Before the sun even began to rise Watson had packed a bag and summoned a cab to carry him to the train station on the far side of the city. Rushing to the ticket booth he demanded a ticket for the Sussex station as he was bound and determined to be at his ill friend's side as soon as possible.

The train car swayed back and forth in perfect rhythm as the powerful locomotive raced down the tracks with its numerous cars in tow behind. Dawn was breaking through the clouds as Watson sat alone in his seat, his eyes transfixed upon the letter in his hands. Despite having read the message enough times to have memorized perfectly to repeat its contents verbatim the good doctor was compelled to read it over and over again, as if by some miracle the message would change from that of despair to one of hope. But no such change would ever take place.

The sight of the passing countryside, the smell of cigars burning from the other passengers and the sound of the train charging down the tracks provoked numerous memories of past adventures to rise to the surface.

Despite parting on good terms to go about their separate ways it had been several years since Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson had spoken since Sherlock's retirement. The two men were briefly reunited twelve years prior when the two kindly paid their respects to the late Mrs. Hudson at her funeral, but their paths failed to cross beyond that lamentable gathering.

It seemed so unnecessary, so cold trivial to speak to one another as if they'd never see one another beyond that mournful day. But now Watson couldn't help but think of all the things he wished he told his friend; to tell him of he much he respected Sherlock's mind and integrity, how appreciative he was of the seemingly impersonal detective for taking him on as a flatmate and making him feel as though he still had a purpose beyond the war and hospital. How he was grateful to have Sherlock taking him out on adventures and seeing the world. To have Sherlock look out for him after Mary tragically died so young; her death being the one that Watson was unable to recover from:

* * *

Watson stood alone in the dark room of his empty house pressing the pale lavender scarf that his late wife often adorned to his face. Her lovely scent, the sweetness of flowers mixed with the embodiment of warmth, brought tears to his already bloodshot eyes as he wept again for his lost love. Standing beside drawn curtains of the window Watson stared at the far corner of the room where the small bassinet had been prepared for their child. A child who perished alongside his mother during birth.

It had been hours since the tragic event unfolded. Merely hours since Watson watched his beloved wife die before his eyes as she struggled through the difficult birth that took her life, as well as their son who hadn't had the chance to live. Mere minutes since Mary and their son, a son that Watson couldn't bring himself to name after the immense heartbreak he had endured, had been taken from their home by the city coroner to be prepared for their adjoined funeral.

Unable to restrain his grief Watson mourned openly as he stood in the shadows of the cold, empty room.

The door to the room opened slowly as a known figure approached the pained man with respectful gait in his steps. "Watson?"

The good doctor didn't acknowledge the familiar voice as he grieved for his wife and son.

"John."

Sherlock crossed the room and stood beside his friend with a heavy heart of his own. Pressing his hand down slowly onto Watson's shoulder the detective could feel the racking spasms that shook Watson's form as he wept with deep and silent sobs as his heart ached with an unfathomable agony.

"John. I'm so sorry."

"Holmes..." Watson's voice was but a hoarse shudder as he found the strength to finally speak. "They're gone. They're both gone... I couldn't save them." Turning to face his friend Watson suddenly gripped the lapels of Sherlock's coat as a bout of madness fell over the grieving doctor. "I couldn't save them!"

Sherlock looked into Watson's bloodshot, tear filled eyes and his own heart began to ache. The kind warmth of Watson's brown eyes had been replaced with coldness and pain. Reaching up slowly Sherlock put his hands over Watson's but didn't try to push Watson's hands away, instead he simply kept the physical contact in place knowing that his friend was in a dire state of mind.

"My friend, it's not your fault."

"But I'm a doctor!" Watson shouted in frustration and self loathing. "She was my wife! He was my son! I should've saved them! I'm a doctor! That's what I'm supposed to do! Save lives..." His knees began to buckle as he broke down into anther fit of sobbing. "I couldn't do it... I couldn't save them..."

"John." Sherlock tightened his grip on Watson's hands and synchronized his own movements as he helped guide his broken friend down to the ground into a kneeling position. The two men were facing each other as they knelt on the cold, hard floor in the darkness. "I'm so sorry." He repeated with the utmost sincerity in his voice. His own gray eyes displayed a seldom seen empathy that spoke volumes as he knelt with his grieving friend on the floor. "You did everything you could. I know you, Watson. You didn't fail Mary or your son, they were tragically beyond saving; even beyond your incredible abilities."

"No!" Watson bawled as he refused to accept their deaths as something so simple as inevitable. "I should have saved them! I failed! I failed..."

Sherlock didn't know what else to say. What could he say? No amount of words could properly express the sorrow and sympathy toward his friend's plight, nor would they bring Mary or their son back from the dead.

Putting one hand behind Watson's head Sherlock pulled his pained friend close and embraced him in a firm hug.

Watson tried to resist the gesture but he was too pained, too broken and caved in. Pressing his face against Sherlock's chest the good doctor wept into his friend's coat. Gently Sherlock used one hand to pry Watson's hands loose from his own coat lapels and moved Watson's arms around his shoulders until the sobbing doctor reflexively tightened his grip around Sherlock in a much needed full hug.

Wrapping his other arm around Watson's trembling shoulders Sherlock supported his friend silently as Watson mourned for the loss of his wife and son.

Hours passed while Sherlock stayed with his grieving friend. When at long last Watson's sobs began to lessen he leaned back on his heels, his eyes closed tight as streams of tears stained his face.

"Come with me Watson. Come." Sherlock insisted as he stood up slowly, his knees aching from the prolonged kneeling position but he didn't dare make a groan of pain. Forcing Watson to rise to his feet Sherlock put his hands on his friend's arms and supported him upright. "Come back to Baker Street. Don't reside here alone."

"I can't. This is... This is..."

"This is your flat, but it is not your home." Sherlock stated firmly but kindly as he slowly pushed Watson to take a step toward the door of the room. "Come back to your home on Baker Street. I shall see you through this horrid passage of time and I shall stay with you for as long as you need me."

* * *

The train slowed and came to a halt with a high pitched screech at the Sussex station. If it hadn't been for the abrupt jostling of the train itself Watson wouldn't have noticed that he had arrived at his destination. Slipping the message into his pocket Watson Rose from his seat, leaning heavily on his cane and gripped the handles on his two bags tightly as he hustled down the aisle to exit the train.

Pushing through the crowd in a rude but understandable fashion the good doctor exited the station's loading and unloading platform at a painfully quick clip for his arthritic body to hail the first passing taxi cab he spotted. Slipping into the backseat of the bulky vehicle with his bags at his side rather than stopping to place them in the trunk Watson instructed the driver where to go and encouraged him to drive as quickly as possible.

Ignoring the serene countryside that blurred by as the cab raced to the address aforementioned Watson sat in silent contemplation revolving around his last encounter with Sherlock all those years ago after Mrs. Hudson's funeral:

* * *

The two men greeted each other with firm handshakes as they stood outside the church where the mourners who came to pay their respect to Mrs. Hudson had already gathered.

Age was evident in the faces of both men; graying thin hair, wrinkles along the eyes and mouth, and slouched posture were all evidence of their extensive time running about on the mortal coil of life. While Watson had become more dependent on his walking cane to assist his movements as an uncomfortable weight gain had accompanied his increasingly sedentary lifestyle, Sherlock himself had maintained a lean figure but reluctantly adorned himself with a small pair of spectacles for his failing vision.

"Are you certain you don't wish to join me in the country?" Sherlock asked his dearest friend with a mild lilt of disappointment to his voice. "It'd do you good to escape the monotonous calamity of the city."

"Thank you Holmes, but I fear I'm far too old to move about these days." Watson declined as he lifted the walking cane as if to emphasize his point. "Not to mention without Mrs. Hudson to care for the flat it has fallen under my responsibility."

"I suppose you're right." Sherlock relented with masked disappointment in his ever bright eyes. "But would it be too much to ask to join me for one final drink before I return to the country?"

"Of course not." Watson was happy to oblige his friend's request. "Come! I have a fine brandy awaiting us back at Baker Street."

"Splendid! It's been far too long since we sat down and engaged in a compelling conversation."

"Oh? The locals proving themselves to be boring company?"

"Very much so. I do miss the excitement of the city, but it's time for me to step away and slip into the shadows. My time in the sun is coming to an end."

"You speak as though we were to attend your own funeral, old boy. Why so dour?"

"I suppose it's the creeping reality of our limited time in this world that has finally caught up to me." Sherlock admitted with a weary sigh as he and Watson walked slowly side by side back to 221b Baker Street together. "I had made a career with dealing in crime, murder and overall chaos; and in that time I had become quite accustomed, quite numb to the senseless loss of life and unfinished business. Now I find myself without a case to solve or work to preoccupy my thoughts constantly dwelling on my extensive past and less on my limited future."

"The cold arrival of death falls upon us all." Watson commented in a somewhat pessimistic manner. "What's important is how well we live our lives and ensuring that our lives were indeed worth living. Time is meaningless."

"True." Sherlock agreed with a faint smile. "You always were wise, my friend. A perfect companion for my thoughts to ensure I was never alone inside my own mind for too long."

"Now, now. Let's change from such a grim subject to something more uplifting. You told me that once you left for the country that you'd take it upon yourself to start chronicling your techniques for future generations. How goes your work?"

"Well enough, I suppose. Tell me, Watson, have you found a worthy successor to your practice?"

"Possibly. There is one man who shows a lot of promise, but he has a single peculiar personality trait that makes me a tad hesitant to bestow upon him full responsibility."

"Oh? And what trait is that?"

Watson grinned slightly as he answered his friend's logical question. "He reminds me of you!"

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly as he studied Watson's facial expression with a perpetual curiosity.

"Come now." Watson motioned with his hand to the locked door of the flat as he and Sherlock made their way down Baker Street. "Let's have that drink."

* * *

The taxi came to a soft stop alongside a stone pathway leading into a quaint two story house. The house itself was composed of gray stone with a dark roof. A small front porch encompassed a large wooden door and sheltered a large bay window. A massive oak tree in the backyard held a large honey beehive with a large apiary box beneath it.

"We're here, sir." The driver stated as he turned to look at Watson sitting in the backseat of the vehicle. "Do you need help with your bags?"

"No, I'll manage." Watson stated as he slipped the driver a generous handful of bills to pay for the fare. "Thank you."

Hobbling out of the back of the taxi with his bags in his hands and leaning heavily against his cane Watson made his way up the front porch and knocked on the door quickly. There was only a moment of pause before the door was pulled open revealing a young woman with long blonde hair pulled back in a neat bun and piercing green eyes. She was wearing a simple white blouse and a pair of black slacks. No more than twenty years of age the young lady was full of energy and eager to show Watson inside the small house.

"Dr. Watson, please come in." She insisted as she took the bag containing Watson's clothes from his hands and shut the door behind him as he entered. "Mr. Holmes is expecting you. Second floor, first door on your left."

"Thank you, young- How did you know that I'm Dr. Watson?"

"You're carrying a medical bag which is indicative of a doctor," she explained logically as she motioned for the stairs with her hand. "and your posture, though hunched, speaks to your time as a soldier. Mr. Holmes told me that he would be expecting you so by all accounts you must be Dr. John Watson."

"Yes, yes. Of course." Watson gave the young lady a kind smile as he began to awkwardly ascend the staircase. "Thank you."

Reaching the top of the staircase Watson found himself staring at the closed door of the designated room with an unexpected hesitation. The sound of his heart pounding in his chest deafened him to the rest of the noise of the house as he slowly reached his hand out to the doorknob and turned it with a trembling grip.

As the door swung open lightly Watson peered inside the room and spotted the sickbed against the far wall where his dear friend Sherlock Holmes was laying. Still, pale and quiet Sherlock appeared disturbingly like a corpse as another doctor listened carefully to his heart with a stethoscope.

Sensing that someone had entered the room the doctor, a young man with fiery red hair, an goatee and blue eyes, looked to the door and spotted Watson standing statuesque in the doorway.

Reflexively the doctor took his stethoscope and draped it around his neck as he pulled the quilt draped over Sherlock up to the detective's neck before rising from his chair beside the bed. Walking quietly to the door the doctor introduced himself with an extended hand.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Bell, I've been seeing to Mr. Holmes since he took ill last night."

"Dr. Watson." Watson shook Dr. Bell's hand though his eyes remained on Sherlock in the bed. "What happened? All I know from the message is that he has suddenly fallen deathly ill."

"It's his heart. Lily, she's Mr. Holmes' student, heard him collapse late last night and summoned my services immediately." Dr. Bell explained professionally in a low voice out of respect for Sherlock resting nearby. "I suspect a heart attack brought on by a previously undiagnosed heart disease."

"No," Watson shook his head solemnly. "it's not from disease. It's from something else."

Dr. Bell just nodded his head in respectful understanding. "I believe you'd know more about Mr. Holmes' overall health and medical history than I."

"Is he conscious?"

"He's been drifting in and out." Dr. Bell put his hand on Watson's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry my friend, but estimate that he'll be gone within the hour. There's nothing more I can do besides make him comfortable during his final moments."

"No need." Watson's hand tightened around the handle of his medical bag as he spoke. "I'll see to him. Please, allow us to be alone."

"Of course." Dr. Bell readily respected Watson's wishes and released his hand from Watson's shoulder. "I'll be downstairs with Lily if you need anything."

"Thank you, son."

As Dr. Bell parted from the bedroom, leaving Watson alone with Sherlock, the door clicked shut softly. Watson took a deep breath as he forced himself to talk across the room and take the now unoccupied seat next to Sherlock's bed.

Looking down at Sherlock's sickly pale, gray hued pallor and drawn features on his face Watson couldn't prevent himself from comparing Sherlock's currently ill facade to his once youthful and vibrant features from thirty years prior. Dark circles under his sunken eyes emphasized how weak, how ill the detective had become over the years. The strands of white hair that ran through the gray that was once a dark black hue made Sherlock seem so much older than he truly was.

As a doctor Watson knew that Sherlock's prematurely aged appearance was the direct result of his past drug abuse, as was his heart attack. The years of cocaine use had damaged Sherlock's heart considerably. The years spent chasing after criminals, hours spent awake while others slept to study images, clues and traces had worn Sherlock's physical strength to the bone.

At night when Sherlock would swap his cocaine for morphine the abundance of the necessary dosage to counteract the cocaine in his system the extreme fluctuation in his heart rate; racing to calm, tachycardic to bradycardic had strained his heart to extreme measures routinely until Watson had finally convinced Sherlock to help him get clean and remain clean.

But irreversible damage had already been done to the detective's heart.

Hesitantly Watson rested hand down on Sherlock's cold arm as it rested atop the quilt that covered him. Weakly and slow his chest would rise and fall with stilted rhythm as still breathed despite his ostensibly failing health.

"It's been far too long, my friend." Watson lamented as he watched over his dying friend. "Far too long..."

"...Watson." A hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice addressed the good doctor. Sherlock's eyes remained closed but a faint grin of relief managed to appear on his thin face. "You've arrived at last."

"Yes. I'm here. I arrived but a moment ago. How did you know it was I sitting here?"

Sherlock's head lolled very slowly to the side as his eyes opened just as slowly. "I heard you walking up the stairs."

"You still recognize the sound of my stride?" Watson laughed a little.

"Yes. Who else takes meticulous steps favoring the left hip over the right?"

"Good to see you haven't lost your touch for deduction."

"But it does seem I've lost my already sparse health." Sherlock sighed weakly as he took in a shuddering breath. "You were right Watson. It was the cocaine that would inevitably be the death of me."

Watson forced himself to restrain his tears before they fell as he desperately sought a way to bring a sense of humor to the otherwise dire moment. "Actually, I was wrong. I had changed my mind after I had seen how dangerous being a detective truly was. I had actually imagined you being taken down by a stray bullet or knife! Perhaps even a spurned mistress that had been exposed during one of your cases!"

"Good ol' Watson." Sherlock chuckled slightly as he sucked in a pained breath through his teeth. "Loyal to the end."

"Why didn't you tell me your health was beginning to deteriorate? I could have stopped by sooner, before you had devolved beyond help."

"I hadn't taken the decline in my health as anything but advanced age." Sherlock admitted with a mild boredom to his tone. "I had endured so much illness as a young child and survived many harrowing ordeals as a detective that it never occurred to me that this sudden deterioration was the remainder of my time ticking away."

"Don't speak like that. Perhaps I can still do something to help you."

"No, it's quite alright." Sherlock's eyes were bright and alert in complete contrast to the rest of his appearance. "I was already living on borrowed time, and it's time for me to give it up."

"Holmes..."

"Fear not, Watson. I'm not afraid. As I've stated before: 'life is a series of lessons with the greatest for the last'! The wait is finally over for me." As sudden sharp pain in his chest stole the confidence from his face as he gasped for breath, his hand clutching at his chest.

"Hold tight," Watson stated as he opened his medical bag and began fishing inside for pain medication. "I can ease your discomfort."

"No." Sherlock wheezed as he forced himself to take a deep breath and endure the intense pain. "You had painstakingly worked to get the drugs from my system and helped me to remain clean. I promised to never partake of any drugs for the rest of my life and I shall not fail you even now."

Watson was touched and frightened by Sherlock's determination to see his promise fulfilled even as he lay on his deathbed. Setting aside his medical bag on the floor Watson placed both hands on Sherlock's arm and squeezed a little.

"The pain has subsided." Sherlock lied as he panted through the tightness in his chest. "Please Watson, don't mourn for me."

"How can I not? You're my best friend!"

"Please. I ask that you don't mourn my death but celebrate my life. Remember me when I was strong and on the case, not as I am now; a weak shell of my former self."

"Sherlock..."

The use of his first name as opposed to his last name made Sherlock smile a little. "I must look as horrendous as I feel. You only address my by 'Sherlock' when I've either done something very foolish or you fear for my life."

"It's been quite time since you've done something foolish," Watson admitted with a faux grin. "the latter is the only option I have left."

"True enough, I suppose." Sherlock's eyes began to glaze as his strength began to dwindle from his already emaciated form. A suffocating pain and weight in his chest ached at his heart as the detective's already ending life began slipping away right before Watson's eyes. "Stay with me, Watson. I don't want to be alone."

Moving one hand from Sherlock's arm to the center of Sherlock's chest Watson felt his friend's struggling heart thumping weakly against his palm. Watson's other hand picked up Sherlock's cold, limp hand from the bed and held tight.

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Thank you Watson. You've always were... a good man. And my... best friend."

"I can honestly say the same about you!" Watson nearly sobbed as his hand tightened around Sherlock's. Fighting to maintain his emotional composure he took a deep breath and watched as his best friend's eyes began to slowly shut; threatening to never open again. "And I promise."

"...Promise?" Sherlock's voice was but a whisper as his damaged heart began to slow in his cold chest.

"I promise that I will celebrate your life," Watson explained while fighting to keep his voice level. "and I promise I will live the rest of mine without any regret."

"Thank you... John..." Sherlock's eyes openly briefly, his focus brief but certain as he locked eyes with Watson one last time. "Until we meet again."

Watson watched as Sherlock's eyes shut for the final time, knowing they'd never open again. Sherlock's breathing slowed, his heart beginning to falter as the beats became weaker and weaker. Watson's own heart began to ache as he felt the grip of Sherlock's hand become colder, and heavier as his hand fell limp in Watson's grasp.

Squeezing tight Watson watched and felt his friend die. The beating heart in Sherlock's chest suddenly stopped and Watson felt nothing more beneath his palm.

"Sherlock?" Watson whispered his friend's name as he squeezed Sherlock's hand again only to received the expected silence. Pressing his hand firmly down against Sherlock's chest his breath hitched in his throat as he felt the unnerving stillness of death.

"Sherlock?" Daring to lean down Watson pressed his ear to Sherlock's chest and heard the unmistakable silence of death and finally allowed his tears to fall.

Sitting back in his chair Watson wrapped both hands around Sherlock's dead hand and pressed the cold knuckles against his own warm forehead.

"Goodbye."

* * *

Two days passed after the death of Sherlock Holmes echoed throughout the United Kingdom. On that cloudy, cold and rainy day hundreds of mourners congregated at the small church in Sussex where the service was held, then thousands more gathered at the cemetery where the late famous detective was to be laid to rest next to his long deceased older brother, Mycroft Holmes.

Watson, the young Dr. Harrison Bell and Sherlock's protege Lily Freeman were in attendance and sitting in the front row next to the closed casket that held the recently passed detective's body.

Inspector Lestrade as well as numerous other members of Scotland Yard; some retired, others still on the force and more still rookies who respected Sherlock, were in attendance behind the trio. A veiled elderly woman who kept her silence was also in attendance, her enigmatic presence reminiscent of 'The Woman' Irene Adler. She was mourning as deeply as Watson though she never uttered a sound.

As the minister began the final sermon upon the grassy terrain of the cemetery beside the casket Watson found his thoughts drifting back to the first time he believed his dear friend had perished.

The disappearance over the Reichenbach Falls.

While Sherlock had used the opportunity to disappear as a means of rooting out the most devious criminals in all of Europe, Watson had mourned all the same unaware of his friend's rouse. Though Sherlock returned with a righteous pride a part of Watson never forgave him for his dangerous stunt.

But now Watson couldn't bear to hold any grudges against his friend, nor could he bring himself to hold onto that anger that he swore he'd never forget.

There would be no miraculous return. No further cases to study. No criminals to be brought to justice.

"...And now Dr. John Watson," the minister stated boldly as prepared to respectfully step aside. "would like to say a few words regarding the late Mr. Holmes."

The sound of his name pulled Watson back into reality, much to his chagrin. Leaning heavily on his cane the good doctor walked slowly beside the casket, his hand pressing down on the ebony colored finish before standing before the gathered mourners with a military presence that immediately drew in respect as he stood proud and tall.

"Sherlock Holmes," Watson began in a melancholy voice that matched the depressing weather that hung overhead in the darkening rain clouds. "was a man that affected the world in a way that very few men could ever hope to accomplish. Our initial encounter had left an impression of awe, confusion and respect that has since never been paralleled by anyone else I had encountered since. Sherlock, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, is himself gone, his methods and legacy will live on in the minds of those who seek the same justice that Sherlock had pursued for twenty-three years of his illustrious career."

There was a brief pause as Watson wrestled with his emotions as he fought to issue his final words in honor of Sherlock.

"Brilliant. Creative. Bold. Courageous. Resilient. Determined. Loyal. Stubborn." Watson smirked a little at the last comment before finishing his statement. "But if there is anything I can say about Sherlock Holmes to sum him up as a person, as a detective and as a man who used his gifts of knowledge and deduction for the betterment of the world as a whole it's simply this: Sherlock Holmes was devoted."

Taking a moment to pause for breath Watson looked out to the gathered mourners and gave a subtle nod of appreciation.

"Devoted to his work. Devoted to justice. Devoted to his country." His hand subconsciously pressing down on the casket once more. "Devoted to his friends."

* * *

One by one the mourners paid their respects to the deceased detective. Thousands of white lilies and dark red roses were left behind on the casket and the grave site as the mass slowly dispersed. A rumble of thunder in the distance warned of the impending rainstorm though Watson refused to leave the funeral until he was but the last sitting beside the casket.

Lily put her hand on Watson's shoulder kindly as Dr. Bell stood a few feet back waiting for her to join him. "Dr. Watson, please come with us. There's nothing more for you to do for him."

"I will be along in a minute, my dear." Watson insisted as he reached up and patted her hand lightly. "Please. I wish to be here only a moment longer."

"Very well." Additional thunder echoed over the land drawing Lily's eyes upward at the clouds overhead. A few drops of rain began to fall in response.

Dr. Bell opened an umbrella and held it over Lily's head as he walked with her to his vehicle sitting on the roadside outside the cemetery.

With his hat in his hands Watson stood up slowly and stared down at the casket adorned in countless flowers. Standing before the casket with his hat over his heart Watson delivered his final farewell to his dearly departed friend.

"Well ol' boy, this will be our final parting." Rain began to pour down heavily with a cold wash. "I can't help but quote your own words as you once described me I now feel benefit yourself: 'You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an East wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Holmes, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.'"

Replacing his hat upon his head Watson bowed his head one final time in respect for the departed detective. "Goodbye my friend."

As Watson turned on his heel to step away from the grave site the dark clouds above suddenly parted and allowed a single ray of sunlight to shine down on him as he walked away from the cemetery with a heavy heart but clear mind.

 _ **-The End**_


End file.
